


The 12 Days of Smutmas

by MissMaudlin



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Car Sex, Dom/sub, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Mile High Club, One Night Stands, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pool Sex, Rain Sex, Revenge Sex, Shameless Smut, Table Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2775380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaudlin/pseuds/MissMaudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 days of Ichabbie smut (smut and only smut).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The 1st Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: Five times Ichabod jerked off thinking about Abbie and the one time he got caught.**

_On the 1st Day of Smutmas_

_My true love gave to me_

_Ichabod jerking off thinking of Abbie~_

1.

The first time Crane frigged himself thinking about Abbie, he came within five minutes.

It was a quiet Sunday night at Corbin’s cabin: the fire crackling in the hearth, the kettle on the burner to boil, and the winter wind whistling softly through the trees. Abbie had just left, but her floral scent—something spicy, Crane realized—drifted about the space and filled his senses. She’d been wearing _skinny jeans_ , so tight that her arse had been entirely delineated within them, but it was when she’d look over her shoulder at him and smile that he’d felt his stomach clench and yes, his cock harden.

His cock hardened again as he lay on the sofa and he unbuttoned his breeches to pull himself out and stroked up and down, thinking about how Abbie swayed as she walked about the kitchen, as she reached up—so tiny she was—for plates from the cabinet, an inch of skin showing as her t-shirt lifted upwards, her skin brown and so smooth that he ached to run his hands across her waist and his fingers dipping into the small of back to cup her arse—

And suddenly he came so hard that his body shook for what felt like ages but had only to be minutes. Upon realizing that he’d frigged himself thinking of his fellow Witness, Crane just groaned and closed his eyes.

2.

Crane generally disdained electricity, but he found himself loving hot showers more than he cared to admit. And he loved them even more upon discovering their convenience when getting in a quick frigging session. Bathing in hip baths had been too cramped and the water cooling too quickly to allow this type of enjoyment.

Leaning his forehead against the warm tile, the hot water streaming down his body, Crane pumped his hand up and down his length, and suddenly images of Abbie entered his brain—she always did, he admitted to himself—and as he cupped his balls he imagined it was her hands touching him, small hands on his cock, on his balls, tickling across his stomach, so close—

And this time he just sighed as he came, knowing that Abbie could never be far from his thoughts.

3.

They hadn’t a choice, really, as the truck only seated two people. So Abbie just sighed and sat on Crane’s lap the entire way back into town, Abbie’s SUV smoking in the distance, both of their cell phones unable to find service.

Their driver Larry had merely grunted when they’d asked for a ride back into town before opening the passenger side door. And it was then that Crane realized that only one other person could reasonably fit inside. He demurred, saying he’d sit in the truck bed, but Abbie had vetoed that instantly, stating that he’d freeze to death in this storm and she didn’t have time to nurse him through fucking pneumonia, what with his shitty immune system and all.

So here they were, with Abbie’s generous backside bouncing against his groin with every mile and Crane biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from thinking about it, but she was such a warm bundle, her scent enveloping him, that he was sure she could feel the hardness beneath her but was too kind to point it out.

And hours later, when Crane was inside the cabin and finally, _finally,_ alone, he ripped open his pants and with his forehead against the wall, frigged himself until cum shot into his hand, hot and endless.

4.

They were stuck in a hotel room together. Of course there had only been one room available—such was their luck, as always. And all Crane could do was watch as Abbie moved about the room, hands plucking at this and that, her body bending as she picked out clothes from her suitcase, her hair in a top knot on her head and then listening to the shower go on and all Crane could imagine was her nude and the water running down her body in streams, across her collarbones to her breasts—oh God, her breasts—and across that dimpled stomach and it was all he could do to wait until she exited the bathroom before he shut himself inside, turned on the water to mask any noise, and fisted himself so hard he was pretty sure he saw stars.

5.

Abbie wore a dress that day. He’d never seen her wear a dress. It was a summer dress, she’d called it: short and cottony, with skinny straps across her upper back, the print bright and springy. She looked like an actual cherry blossom, beautiful and blooming. So beautiful that upon seeing her bare arms, the slope of her shoulders, good God, her _collarbone,_ Crane had to adjust himself in his chair in the archives room.

And when she said she was going across the street for some food—did he want anything?—he just said he was quite all right and waited until she left before skittering behind a book shelf, taking his cock out, and frigging himself with the thought of her in that dress forefront in his mind, wondering if he would ever get the chance to strip it from her body, wondering if she wore any undergarments underneath it, her skin warm and alive. And then he convulsed, shaking, the hard wood of the bookshelf digging into his back, the bite of pain only adding to the sweet bliss.

6.

Crane didn’t hear the door open that evening.

Lying on the bed, he imagined Abbie on top of him, her hands skimming across her breasts, her hair over her shoulder, her mouth curved in a sultry smile, her lashes fluttering, and he unbuttoned his breeches and took his already hard cock in his hand, jerking up and down, up and down—

And he heard a small gasp. Looking up, he realized that Abbie was in his room—in his room, seeing him frig himself, Abbie, _in his room_ , Christ Almighty—

Scrambling into a sitting position, Crane tried to stuff himself back into his breeches but he couldn’t button the placket because he was still ridiculously hard and so he just put his hand over his eyes, saying, “Lieutenant, please, excuse me—”

It felt like hours, the only sounds in the room their combined breathing as neither spoke. Then the bed shifted and Crane opened his eyes to see Abbie sitting on his thighs, her eyes narrowed but only with intent, and he couldn’t speak at all, he was so shocked. He watched as her small hand reached into his breeches and pulled out his cock once more, her fingers wrapped around it.

And in her lovely, husky voice, she said simply: “Let me help you with that.” And all he could do was curl his toes, fall back down into the bed and let the ecstasy overwhelm him as Abbie frigged him to fruition.


	2. The 2nd Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: Ichabod learns what the mile high club really means.**

_On the 2nd day of Smutmas  
_

_My true love gave to me_

_Abbie and Crane fucking on an aero-plane~_

Crane had tried to hide his nervousness at flying. But Abbie could tell that his body had gotten tenser and tenser—as they checked their bags, then went through security, and finally reaching their gate with two hours to spare. By the time they boarded, he was sprung so tightly Abbie worried he’d never be able to unwind again.

Now they were in the air and Abbie could see Crane clenching and unclenching his hands, his fingers fluttering against his palms like manic butterflies. He stared straight ahead at the seat in front of him, unwilling even to look at the crossword puzzle books Abbie had purchased for him at the newsstand hours earlier.

An hour or so later, Crane suddenly stood up, muttering about using the facilities, and Abbie watched as he stalked down the aisle toward the plane’s restroom. And then she smiled. “I know exactly how to calm you down,” Abbie said to herself as she placed her own magazine in the seat pocket in front of her before stuffing her iPod into her bag below.

Letting some minutes pass before she stood up, Abbie walked casually down the aisle, glancing left and right to make sure no one was coming. When Crane finally opened the door, he said upon seeing her, “Oh, Abbie, are you—”

And Abbie quickly maneuvered her way past Crane and shut them both inside the bathroom, locking the door with a neat click.

Crane stood, stunned, a moment before sputtering, “What in the world, Abbie—”

Abbie reached up and brought his face down to hers, kissing him hard. Crane didn’t react at first, but within a second he reached down, pulling Abbie tightly against him, her breasts crushed against his chest, his hand already trailing up her back below her shirt.

But when Abbie bumped against the door, jostling it, Crane pulled away, breathing hard. “How are we…?”

Abbie glanced around her and then hopped up on the small ledge of the sink. “Like this,” she replied as she stripped her jeans and underwear down her legs.

Crane stared at her, his eyes a sharp blue, his breath puffing, before he unbuttoned his breeches and yanked her legs forward, crossing them behind his back before he took her face in his hands again.

He kissed her with tongue and teeth and when Abbie nipped him back he groaned and hitched her leg higher on his waist, his cock brushing her pussy and then they both moaned into each other’s mouths, the sounds low and pulsing. Crane reached between them, moving his fingers within her wetness before slicking the fluid over his cock in preparation. “Are you ready?” he asked her, his voice hoarse.

Abbie merely hitched herself forward and then his cock was inside her—deep, so deep—and he began thrusting into her, unmindful of how his elbow knocked against the door, how his other hand dug into her waist, painful in its grip.

And Abbie felt herself so close so quickly, hovering on the edge, when suddenly they heard a knock on the door and a muffled voice saying, “Are you all right in there, sir?”

Abbie and Crane froze before Abbie pressed her forehead against his shoulder, stifling her laughter. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she said against his shirt, and he just wrapped his hands around both of her legs and kept thrusting until her words transformed into moans again and then she was convulsing in his arms, his own release following soon thereafter.

When Abbie returned to her seat with the gazes of the various flight attendants on her, some frowning, others nodding in approval—after she and Crane had kissed and giggled and tripped trying to dress themselves—she sat back down next to Crane and said simply, “Welcome to the mile high club, Crane.”


	3. The 3rd Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: First time + Ichabod surprising Abbie with his lack of prudishness**

_On the 3rd day of Smutmas  
_

_My true love gave to me_

_A demonstration of Crane’s abilities~_

Abbie had expected some awkwardness, perhaps. Maybe some hesitation, considering the number of years he hadn’t had sex. Maybe he’d only had sex with Katrina, or would become flustered like when she’d teased him about Caroline’s hitting on him, his hands fluttering at his sides in consternation.

Yes, she’d imagined that. And to her surprise—and delight—she imagined wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.

He began by kissing her: gently, almost sweetly, tilting her head back, cupping her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. She’d always found his hands fascinating: long, tapered fingers with neatly filed nails, the skin surprisingly smooth and unmarked, but the callouses on his fingertips belying his military past. Now, those fingers stroked her cheeks with featherlight touches and she melted: truly melted as he kissed her and kissed her and oh, kissed her like she was the sole person who mattered.

And now she lay on the bed—nude, and not the least bit embarrassed by it—just allowing him to stroke his hands down her arms, into the indentation of her elbow, his lips following the paths of his fingers and hands, and goosebumps rose on her flesh in response. He was unhurried, she realized, simply reveling in her body, enjoying the curves and angles and textures. It was an entirely new sensation.

When he moved his hand down her torso, his fingertips tickling at the indentation of her waist, she squirmed a little, the feeling ticklish. “This wasn’t what I expected,” she said—a little breathlessly, if she were being honest with herself.

Crane smoothed a hand across her belly, dipping briefly into her belly button. “And what, precisely, did you expect, Lieutenant?”

Abbie smiled at the title, but then moaned when he began kissing the underside of her left breast. “I guess, I thought, it’s been a while—”

"For you?" Crane circled her breast with a single finger.

Shifting upwards, the sensation of his calloused finger against her breast almost painful, Abbie tried to find a response. “No, not me, I mean—” He circled closer to her nipple and she had to restrain herself from grabbing his hand and either making him stop or making him touch her where she wanted him to. “You, I didn’t expect _you.”_

Crane glanced up. “Were you expecting another man to bed you this eve?”

Kicking him in the side, Abbie just rolled her eyes before grabbing his hand, keeping it away from her breast she could just think for one moment. “No, I meant: I didn’t expect you to be so…comfortable. With this.” And she motioned at whatever “this” meant and Crane just raised an eyebrow in that obnoxiously arrogant way of his that made her want to pull his hair in response.

"You expected, perhaps, a man fumbling his way around your body, awkward and unsure, yes?"

"Well, kind of," Abbie replied, nonplussed at how accurately he’d described what she’d been thinking. She _had_ expected that he’d be awkward, even prudish. She imagined he’d stutter at her nudity, he’d blush at her suggesting that he go down on her, he’d wonder if he were hurting her while they had sex. Yes, she’d expected one or all of those things.

But Crane just smiled, his eyelids drooping slightly, that sly smile of his inching his mouth upward. And then he began circling her nipple again and then he pinched it, causing Abbie’s back to bow and a little moan to issue from her. “I’m not certain why there’s a prevailing belief that this century invented sex,” he said simply before he bent down, licked her nipple, and then blew on it, the cold air making her curl her hands into the sheets. “But I assure you: you didn’t.”

And then he took her nipple into his mouth and she couldn’t think—couldn’t think about what she imagined or speculated and Jesus Christ, his mouth, sucking at her, and then his tongue swirling around the tip—

Then he was kissing his way down her breastbone and then her stomach and he nipped her belly and dug his hands into her hips and smoothed his thumbs over her hipbones as his mouth traveled further downwards.

"And do you know what else we were most certainly aware of, dearest Abbie?"

Abbie looked down, watching as Crane parted her legs—gently, but assuredly. “What?” she croaked.

"Every man knew that a woman needed _la p_ _etite mort_ —the little death—to have her greatest chance of conceiving—”

Abbie squeaked at the word _conceiving_ , closing her legs automatically, but not before Crane continued, “And although neither of us desire to conceive a child this night—” And here he parted her again, dipped his head, and breathed on her with his warm breath before saying, “That doesn’t necessitate missing out on what I find to be the most enjoyable part of bed-sport: making a woman come so hard she screams.”

And before Abbie could even think of a reply to that declaration, he’d begun licking the lips of her pussy with such dexterity that her only thought was that, for once in her life, she was grateful to be proven wrong.


	4. The 4th Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: au where ichabbie are complete strangers but hookup in the back of crane's car anyways**

_On the 4th day of Smutmas  
_

_My true love gave to me_

_A one-night stand in the back seat~_

He didn’t do this: meaning, he didn’t hook up with strangers. And he certainly didn’t hook up with strangers in the back of his car like some horny sixteen-year-old boy with his first girlfriend after a football game, fumbling with zippers and bra closures and searching for a condom inside his wallet, hoping the condom wasn’t already expired from when they gave them out in sex ed.

But the moment Ichabod Crane—English professor, consummate gentleman who had two girlfriends his entire life, wearer of loafers and sweaters and who always paid his bills on time—had seen her, all he could think was: I want her. Her, and only her.

And here she was: in the backseat of his SUV—with tinted windows, for which he was entirely grateful for having now—this beautiful woman with the darkest, loveliest eyes he’d ever seen in his entire life, with a body like sin. And he didn’t even know her name.

"What’s your name?" Crane asked in between kisses. If he was going to do this, he had to at least have a name. Pulling away a moment, he stripped off his shirt as he watched her do the same.

She smiled, teeth flashing in the faint light of the parking lot. “Abbie,” she replied. “You?”

"Ichabod." And then he cringed inwardly, as his name inevitably elicited either odd stares or even giggles.

But Abbie just raised an eyebrow before saying, “Never known someone with that name before. From the Book of Samuel, right?”

Crane paused, raising an eyebrow of his own. “You know your Bible, Miss Abbie.”

Abbie reached for his belt, unbuckling it with deft movements. “Mama made me and my sister go to Sunday school every week. Some of it stuck.” She then began unzipping his jeans, her hands delving beneath his briefs. “But let’s not talk about the Bible anymore, hmm?”

Crane could only tip his head back and grunt in agreement as her hands encircled his hard cock. Her fingers were small but knew what they were about, and Crane found himself on the edge closer than he would’ve ever expected. Reaching for her, he kissed the soft curve of her neck, biting the tendons lightly before returning to her mouth: that magnificent, gorgeous mouth. He could write a poem, a sonnet, an ode to her mouth alone—

Abbie drew away then, smiling as she unzipped her jeans, pulling them down her legs, revealing the red lacy panties that had matched her bra—the bra now discarded somewhere on the floor of Crane’s SUV. And then she began stripping off her panties and it was all he could not to come right then and there, he was so turned on. So instead he stripped out of his own jeans and briefs and threw them on the floor—not before getting the condom out of his wallet (not expired, thank God)—mixing his clothes with Abbie’s, and then he sat, panting a little, waiting.

Abbie crawled into his lap then and placed her hands on his shoulders. She nipped his chin. “Do you have that condom?” she asked, her voice husky.

Crane leaned against the car door as he handed over the silver packet. Taking it from him, Abbie ripped it open and deftly rolled the latex over his cock, her hands hot and sweet against his flesh. He couldn’t stop himself from groaning.

Abbie reached up and pushed his glasses up his nose, her grin infectious. “Probably helps for you to be able to see.” And then she reached for his cock and slowly fed it into her slick pussy and Crane didn’t even feel the pain when his head thunked against the glass of the car window, so overwhelmed was he by the sensations below.

And then Abbie raised herself—up, down, up—on his cock, and he gripped her waist and tipped her head back and kissed her hard, probably too hard, but she gave as good as she got and kissed him just as hard, her teeth scraping against his lips. And then she leaned back even further, and then Crane was above her, thrusting into her with movements he knew were jerky, but he could feel Abbie’s back bowing, her breasts up-thrust, and knew she was close. Crane hitched her legs up until they hung over his arms and fucked her until she came—came so hard he could feel her body’s trembling up his cock, and it was only a few more thrusts before he was coming, too.

Both of them just breathed and panted and breathed and then Crane lay down beside Abbie and spooned her and just stroked her sides as he kissed the back of her neck, before he snaked one arm around her waist to keep her from falling off the seat.

"That was—"

Abbie sighed, playing with his fingers against her belly. “Yeah, it was.”

They lay in silence a few moments more. Once their bodies cooled, Abbie wiggled out from under his arm until she sat on the floor, her face at level with his. Smiling, she again pushed his glasses up his nose before running her fingers through his hair. Then she reached for her clothes and began dressing herself.

Crane sat up and just watched as she slid on her panties, hooked on her bra, and then slid on her shirt and jeans. After she slipped on her flats and grabbed her bag, she kissed him one last time: her mouth hot, tasting of something spicy and intoxicating. Yes, Crane thought as she pulled away, when he returned home he would write an ode to her mouth.

"See you later, Ichabod." And with that, she exited his SUV and walked off into the night, to haunt Crane’s dreams for many months to come.

 


	5. The 5th Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: Ichabbie: Phone sex.**

_On the 5th day of Smutmas  
_

_My true love gave to me_

_Abbie introducing Crane to phone sex~_

"Are we truly attempting this?"

Abbie hopped onto her bed, cradling her phone as she did so. “You did mention that you were intrigued by phone sex—”

"And at the time, I was inebriated, if you’ll also recall."

“ _E_ _n vino veritas.”_ Abbie ignored Crane’s scoff on the other end. “Or are you too chicken?”

There was silence at the other end, but Abbie could imagine Crane’s face: eyebrows furrowed, his hands probably motioning about like they always did, agitation coursing through his body. Oh, how Crane _hated_ when she accused him of being chicken. The man’s pride never failed to get him into trouble, and Abbie wouldn’t lie and say she didn’t provoke him for her own amusement at times. Like now.

"I am never, as you say, _chicken_ , dearest Abbie. Please remember that I fought in the Continental Army and survived Valley Forge with all of my digits intact.”

"Stop stalling, Crane. You wanna do this or not?"

Abbie heard Crane’s exhale before he replied, “Fine, let us proceed. Do you start or I?”

Smiling, Abbie pulled down the covers on her bed, placing her phone on speaker. “I’ll start since you’re a phone sex virgin.” She ignored Crane’s scoff—the man had a tendency to scoff when he was in uncomfortable territory, so Abbie had learned long ago to ignore his outbursts. “What are you wearing?” she asked instead.

She heard something creak—most likely Crane sitting on the bed—before he said, “My shirt and breeches, as per usual.” When Abbie didn’t reply, he coughed and added, “And you, Abbie? What is your attire?”

Abbie glanced down. “I’m wearing that white lingerie set you bought me for Valentine’s Day—the one with the little blue flowers and lace and tiny blue bows at the corners. Well, I should say I’m wearing the panties, but not the bra.” Abbie grinned when she heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Bras are so uncomfortable, you know.”

"I can only imagine," Crane replied, his voice a little tight. "You do have the most magnificent breasts; it’s a shame to keep them covered."

Abbie cupped her breasts, plucking at her nipples as Crane continued. His voice alone could make her wet: deep, that aristocratic, almost prissy accent, the way his tongue caressed his consonants and vowels. Yes, she had to admit that she loved his voice.

When she didn’t respond right away, she heard Crane ask: “Are you touching your breasts?” And Abbie pinched and plucked at her nipples even harder, the sharp bite of pain mixing with the pleasure.

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "And my nipples are swollen and puckered, like you like them."

Crane just groaned on the other end, and Abbie laughed a little. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he answered through the phone.

"Mmm, that’s my goal." Abbie traced her hand down her belly then, reaching the waistband of her panties. "Are you touching yourself, Crane? I can just imagine how hard your dick has gotten already."

There was no reply except for some clothes shuffling and then a grunt as Crane worked to get his boots off. And as Abbie listened to a creaking noise on the other end, she trailed her hand down inside her panties, just stroking the seam of her pussy, the wetness already slicking her finger. “I’m touching myself, and I’m already soaking wet,” she said in reply to the silence on the other end. Abbie imagined Crane unbuttoning the placket of his breeches, reaching inside and pulling out his already hard dick, and she shivered a little at the thought.

"If I were there, dearest Abbie," Crane said in reply, his voice traveling through the phone to wrap around Abbie’s body, enveloping her in his dulcet tones. "I’d strip your panties off slowly, kissing my way down your legs, paying special attention to the skin behind your knees, your calves, your beautiful ankles, your delicate toes."

And then Abbie just heard a groan on the other end, and she delved her finger between her pussy lips and groaned when her finger brushed her clit. “And then what?” she finally asked, her voice tight.

"And then I’d place your legs over my shoulders and bury my face in your lovely sex and lick you and kiss you and suck you for hours." Abbie stroked her labia and her clit, imagining it was his tongue, her back bowing slightly. "And when you couldn’t take it any longer, I’d finger you and take your bud in my mouth and suck it so hard you’d buck under my hands but I wouldn’t let you go—"

Abbie fingered herself and circled her clit with her thumb, the tension in her body building and building. “And then?”

Crane breathed heavily, and Abbie could only imagine how close he was, too. “I’d fuck you, Abbie, my dearest, sweetest Abbie, until you screamed my name.”

Rubbing her clit, she could only eek out, “I never scream.”

"But I’d make you scream this time. And when you came I’d keep sucking your bud and finger your sex and make you come for as long as possible."

Abbie couldn’t reply then; she just fingered herself harder, one finger then another, as she rubbed her clit, her toes curling into the sheets, her breath hitching. And when Crane said in that voice of his, “Are you coming, Abbie?” she came so hard that she may have made a noise (she refused to believe she actually screamed).

As she orgasmed, she heard Crane’s shout on the other end—he was the louder of the two, she thought with a smile—and then she was lost to the sensations cascading like a waterfall through her body.

During the aftermath, both were silent, just breathing. Some moments later, as her heart slowed down, Abbie picked up her phone and said simply, “So, what are your thoughts on phone sex now?”

There was no response at first, but Abbie could imagine Crane’s trying not to scoff again. But all he said in reply was, his voice husky, “I shall heed your suggestions without complaint from now on.”

And Abbie just laughed into the phone.


	6. The 6th Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: Crane teaching Abbie an old trick, which Abbie teaches Crane a new one.**

_On the 6th day of Smutmas_

_My true love gave to me_

_Something old, something new~_

When Abbie opened her mailbox on a Saturday morning, she wasn’t expecting anything more than junk mail or maybe a bill or two. But to her surprise, she found a letter intermixed with the grocery store ads and credit card applications: a letter sealed with red wax and with flowing script on the other side. She smiled to see the incongruity of the 2014 Forever Stamp at the right-hand corner of a letter straight out of the 18th century.

Upon returning inside—glad that Jenny wasn’t home to tease her—she unfolded the letter written on what she could only imagine was expensive paper, to read the following words:

_Dear Madam,_

_You will excuse the Impropriety of this Missive, as you are an unmarried Lady and I merely a humble Gentleman wholly unconnected with you. I must admit, however, that you figure in my Thoughts most ardently and without ceasing; thus, I write to you this Letter in hopes that you shan’t burn it before you ascertain its Contents.  
_

_I send you this Letter to ask that you entertain the Idea of dining with me next Saturday eve (December —, 20—) at my Home—rather, Corbin’s former abode, as it were. I fully promise to provide you with a Meal, at the very least edible, if not wholly delicious._

_I am, most devotedly,_

_Your Servant,_

_Ichabod Crane_

_P.S.: Initially upon writing this letter, I utilised the long “s” common to my time, but realised soon thereafter that it would unduly burden you upon reading this missive. I apologise for the awkwardness of my handwriting, regardless._

Upon finishing the letter, Abbie grabbed her phone to text Crane her own missive:

_You could’ve just called, you know._

*

Crane had learned how to cook in the army. Or rather, he’d learn how to make hardtack moderately edible, how to skin rabbits and squirrels, and which berries to avoid. He’d only recently learned how to use a 21st century oven and stove—and microwave—but after some mishaps (he hadn’t realized you shouldn’t put metal in the microwave until after he’d done it once), he was adept at using both as any other modern appliance.

That didn’t, however, render him an exceptional chef. This century frustrated him, but it also put him in awe at the level of choices available: choices in spices, in produce, in just varieties of boxed cereal. The first time Abbie had taken him to the local market, he’d stayed in the cereal aisle, just reading all of the titles scrawled on the boxes: Cocoa Puffs, Frosted Flakes, Cheerios, Rice Crispies, Lucky Charms—did this century actually eat _candy_ for breakfast?

Regardless, sometimes he felt overwhelmed by the sheer amount of choices. But tonight, he’d decided to make something he knew Abbie liked—chicken and dumplings—and hoped she’d be pleased. He wanted to please her. He’d sent her that letter because he’d wanted to court her, as a man of his era would court a lady. Abbie deserved nothing less.

When she arrived, wearing her usual jeans and t-shirt, he took her hand and kissed it, his lips lingering on the back of her hand. Abbie laughed a little and waved him away. “What are you making?” she asked, walking towards the kitchen table. Before Crane could reach her, she’d already pulled out a kitchen chair and seated herself. He sighed inwardly.

"Chicken and dumplings," he replied, seating himself across from her. "It will be finished in a quarter hour or so."

"Well, thanks for cooking. And for inviting me," Abbie said. She eyed him a moment, then, her dark eyes rather inscrutable. She was, Crane thought, always a bit of a mystery to him, despite their partnership and hardships shared together. "Although you could’ve just called. Or asked me yesterday when we were working together."

Crane flexed his hands and then forced himself to stop, knowing he gave away too much of how he was feeling when he did that. “I realize this, Lieutenant,” he replied slowly. “But after that kiss we shared, I thought…”

And here Abbie leaned back in her chair, her head tilted. “You thought what?”

Crane cleared his throat. “I thought you deserved to be courted first. As a lady of my era would deserve.”

Abbie sighed then, rubbing her forehead. “Crane, I appreciate what you’re trying to do—”

"Do you?"

"—but I’m not a lady of your era. Never have been and, quite frankly, don’t want to be one." Abbie stood then, crossing over to the window to look out onto the yard. She was a silent a moment before adding, "But thank you. Really."

Crane stood then and went to her, standing behind her: not touching, but just near. He couldn’t not be near her, he admitted to himself. “Do you know why I sent you that letter?” he asked her.

Abbie shrugged. “For nostalgia’s sake? For fun?”

Crane stroked his finger down the side of her lovely neck then before twirling a strand of her dark hair around his finger. “No, I didn’t do it for fun, Abbie. Or because I long for the old days. Believe it or not, I don’t want to return to my original century.”

Abbie turned to face him. “Then why?”

"Because when I realized that I wanted you—in whatever capacity you felt you could give me—I didn’t know how to proceed. Thus, I fell back on how I was taught to court a lady centuries past." Crane smiled then, a little sadly. "And because you deserve to be longed for, dearest, loveliest Abbie. Even if you think you do not."

Abbie just gazed at him a moment, silent. She then reached up and took his face in her hands, bringing him down for a kiss, open-mouthed, a kiss that started sweetly and ended bursting with passion, a kiss of lips and tongue and even teeth. Their first kiss had simply been sweet. This one, though, found Crane groaning a little against her mouth, his hands descending downward to grasp her arse and pull her closer, her body melding with his.

And when they parted, Abbie just gazed up at him through those long, dark lashes, and said, “You can court me all you want like a guy in the 18th century, but in return, I get to treat you like a woman of the 21st. Got it?”

Crane hitched her leg up until it circled his hip. “And how, precisely, does a woman of the 21st century treat a man?”

Abbie wiggled against him, her sex rubbing against his own, before she replied in that husky voice of hers, “Come to the bedroom and find out.”

Crane stood still a moment as he watched Abbie sidle away from him, but before she got far, he bent down and scooped her up in his arms. She laughed, throwing her arms around his neck. “You’re so damn cheesy,” she said as he carried her to the bedroom.

"I resent that assertion," Crane replied before dumping her onto the bed, "as I plan to prove just how very wrong you are."

Abbie was already untucking his shirt before reaching up underneath it to stroke his chest. “Mmm, you can try.”

"Oh, I won’t merely try. I will succeed." And then he kissed her again: not only her mouth but her throat; behind her ears, on her eyelids, across her collarbone and down her arms. Abbie wiggled and tried to get out from underneath him, but he kept her trapped. He moved a hand up her shirt and underneath her bra, stroking her breasts, relishing her moans at his touch.   
  
Soon, though, Abbie pushed him over onto his back, perching herself on top of him as she touched and kissed him all over, a gift of reciprocity. And Crane just enjoyed the sensations: of her warmth, her small hands dancing across his skin, her lips on his throat and her teeth nipping at him. And then she stripped off her shirt and bra, bare before him, and she brought his hands to her breasts and all he could do was marvel that they were finally here, together, making love, and it was all he could’ve ever wanted.

And when they finally—finally, after everything, after every battle, every terror, every doubt and every victory—came together, Abbie lifting herself onto his cock, her body gorgeous in the faint light of evening as she moved like a dancer on top of him, the only thing Crane could think was: _Thank God for women of the 21st century._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an FYI: the long s looks rather like a lowercase f and was used up until the 1810s or so. It was used at the beginning and middle of words. Thus, a word like missive would look like miſſive. Confusing, no? (I spent a semester taking 18th century British lit and had to read tons of documents with the long s. It was painful.)


	7. The 7th Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: twelve days of hotness: angry dom abbie riding ichy’s face and not letting him come when she’s finished with him**

_On the 7th day of Smutmas  
_

_My true love gave to me_

_Abbie punishing Crane thoroughly~_

Her anger at him had been simmering below the surface for weeks. But this—this was the last straw, the straw that broke the camel’s back, the overflowing of the pot, everything, Abbie was _done_ with Ichabod Crane. It was the last betrayal in a long line of betrayals that she’d forgiven, overlooked for the sake of their mission, but not now. Not anymore.

Sitting in her car, Abbie gripped the steering wheel so tightly her hands ached. But Crane kept talking—Lieutenant, I never meant to put you in danger, he said—but she’d heard that line one too many times. “You’re good at saying the right things,” she spat out, “but horrible at keeping any of those promises.”

Crane flinched, falling silent. When he was about to open his mouth again, Abbie cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Just shut up, Crane. Just get the fuck out of my car and leave me alone.”

Crane seemed almost to say something again, but wisely refrained. Exiting the vehicle, he bent his body before shutting the door quietly. Abbie watched as he entered the cabin, her own body still thrumming with anger. She’d never before in her life wanted to act on her anger so much as she did right now. She wanted more than hollow words or empty promises. And she was tired of being used, over and over again.

Shutting off the ignition, she stalked into the cabin behind Crane. He was hanging up his coat when she entered, and before he could say anything beyond, “Lieutenant—” she’d pushed him against the wall—catching him off guard enough that he stumbled backwards easily—and then grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “Lieutenant,” he choked out, his eyes a little wild.

Abbie pushed up against him, crowding him, forcing him to endure her body against his. She may have been short, but she had enough strength in her body to keep a skinny asshole like him where she wanted. “I’m done with you fucking me over,” Abbie said, her voice low. As she stood on her tip-toes, pulling Crane’s face closer to hers, she whispered in his ear, “I want more than your apologies, your promises, your speeches. You’re so good at speeches, Crane, but turn around and you do the opposite as soon as you can. I’m fucking _tired_ of it.”

Crane licked his lips. “What would you have me do, then?”

Abbie pressed her breasts into his torso and felt the delineation of his hardening dick against herself. “I want you to make it up to me.” With that, she took him by the wrist, motioning him toward the bedroom. “Lie down on the bed.”

"Lieutenant—"

"I didn’t ask you to talk."

Abbie watched as Crane hesitated before following her order, his body tense, his hands twitching, but his breathing increasing with every step. She knew he was turned on. And she reveled in her power over him, even when she wanted to strangle him for everything he’d done to her.

Crane lay down on the bed, his feet almost dangling off the end. Abbie would’ve laughed if she’d been in the mood. Instead, she pulled off her boots and took off her jeans, tossing both into the corner of the room. Crawling onto the bed, she straddled Crane’s face, her pussy only inches from his mouth. Her knees kept his head pinned, like she wanted.

Swallowing, Crane murmured, “And what would you have me do, Abbie?”

His voice, low and strained, sent shivers through Abbie. In revenge, she pulled his hair a little, lifting his chin—and his mouth—closer to her. “I want you to eat me out, Ichabod Crane.”

She felt Crane shudder underneath her before he lifted a hand, pulling away the fabric of her panties, so slowly, too fucking slowly, exposing her to him. He kept his hand against the inside of her thigh as he began tonguing her pussy, slowly licking her folds, deliberately drawing out the sensations. Abbie gripped his hair harder, leaning back slightly. “Just like that,” she murmured.

He sucked her folds before tonguing them again, over and over again, so slowly that Abbie felt her legs trembling. His tongue glanced off her clit but would constantly dart away, causing Abbie to groan with frustration. She pulled his hair, but to no avail. Before long, she reached back and dug her nails into his bicep, making him yelp.

"Don’t fucking tease me, Crane," she ordered. "I don’t have that kind of patience tonight."

Crane merely grunted an assent before using his other hand to finger her as his mouth found her clit, sucking it like she wanted. Abbie began thrusting her pussy against him, riding his mouth, the sensations filling her body until she was shaking again, her thigh muscles tight with tension. And then Crane hooked his finger so it hit her g-spot and sucked her clit so hard that finally, finally, she came and she gasped and rode his mouth to make her orgasm last as long as possible.

Licking her pussy lightly, Crane waited until her body calmed before pulling his hand away from her panties. Both of them just breathed and breathed, until Abbie unbent her body and crawled down Crane’s body, the bulge in his breeches obvious. She traced the outline of his dick with a finger, and he bucked underneath her. Smiling, she continued to lightly touch him until he groaned her name, his voice sounding like he was in pain.

"Do you want me to suck you off, Crane?" she asked him. He placed a hand over his eyes before nodding. And Abbie unbuttoned his pants, reaching inside to pull out his engorged dick, squeezing him to the point that he grunted and groaned, before she tongued the shaft—lightly, with the tip of her tongue, tracing the vein on his dick. She could feel his legs tremble underneath her, his hips thrusting against her, before she took the head in her mouth and sucked—hard.

"Abbie!" Crane thrust up into her mouth, and Abbie knew he was close. She fondled his balls, swirling her tongue around the crown, drawing everything out, until Crane was delirious under her ministrations. And then with one—last—lick—up his dick, she stood, his dick upthrust, begging to be finished off.

As she shrugged on her jeans and laced up her boots, Crane sat up, his face pained. “What are you—”

Abbie pushed him back onto the bed. Digging her nails into his chest, pinning him to the bed, she whispered into his ear, “You can fuck yourself, Ichabod Crane.”

And before he could respond, she left, shutting the front door with a decisive slam.


	8. The 8th Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: Could you do one where Ichabbie go on a beach vacay? It could be their end of days reward or just needing a break (rest of Team Witness-Frank alive plz- holds down the fort). Points if you add wall sex in there somewhere.**

_On the 8th day of Smutmas  
_

_My true love gave to me_

_Abbie and Crane on vacation~_

It was their reward for a job well-done. And really, didn’t they deserve a vacation for averting the apocalypse? If there was any reason to take a Caribbean vacation, Abbie mused, it was that one.

"Will you get my back?" Abbie asked Crane, turning around. He’d only frowned and twitched a little when he’d first seen her in her bikini, but she’d trained him well enough to know that he wasn’t allowed to make comments about decency. And Abbie knew well enough that in his time people had all kinds of orgies—and oh, she’d also found a catalogue of prostitutes, did Crane know about that, as well?—so he wasn’t ever allowed to talk about the supposed loose morals of the 21st century.

"So are we simply to lounge about all day?" Crane asked as he squirted sunscreen in his palm before rubbing it on Abbie’s shoulders, gently spreading it across her skin.

"Mmm, that’s the general idea of a vacation." Crane moved his hands downward, skimming her waist and lower back. If he dipped a little lower than necessary, Abbie wasn’t going to complain. "I’m getting a mimosa—want one?"

"I think I’ll abstain for now, thank you."

Abbie shrugged and, walking over to the bar—always open and always well-stocked, God she loved vacations—she ordered her mimosa with a smile at the cute bartender.

She and Crane lounged in the sun for a while, sometimes talking, other times just enjoying the sunshine. She, soaking up the rays while Crane read a book of some sort. She’d introduced him to the wonders of sunscreen early on, as she knew his pasty ass would fry in the hot Caribbean sun within minutes. He’d hemmed and hawed before capitulating; now, he applied the stuff religiously, marveling at the inventions of mankind. Although he’d had his own type of sunscreen during his time, it was not nearly as effective as what it was now, and it came in so many varieties today, although what, precisely, did 50 SPF denote—

Yes, Crane certainly loved new things, whatever he may say otherwise.

By the afternoon, Abbie was warm enough that she decided to take a dip. The greatest perk of this vacation was that they had this pool all to themselves. It had been a gift from Irving, Jenny, the entire force, really, with the promise that they’d hold down the fort while they were gone.

Sitting down by the side of the pool, Abbie dipped her toe in the warm water, testing the temperature, before she jumped in. She’d piled her hair on top of her hair beforehand to keep it from getting wet, and made certain not to drift beyond 4’ or so. Crane had teased her for that, as he could stand in the 6’ end of the pool (although with his head tipped back to breathe, as he wasn’t that tall) without too much difficulty. She drifted through the water, just enjoying the sensation of being able to relax, of being able not to worry, to just have fun for once. It had been too long.

Some moments later, she heard a splash and saw that Crane had abandoned his book to join her. “Getting hot?” she asked him. She drifted, lazily stroking her arms through the water.

Crane moved toward her, an eyebrow raised. “I suppose you could say that,” he said in reply before grabbing her by waist, pulling her toward him until their bodies melded together. “At least I was gazing upon your lovely form.”

Abbie laughed, tipping her head back. “You’re such a tease, Ichabod Crane.” Reaching downward, she palmed his erection through his swim trunks, feeling it grow harder underneath her hand. Whispering in his ear, she added, “Is that all you were thinking about? My ‘lovely form?’”

Crane hissed in a breath as she gripped his dick—lightly, but with enough pressure that he shivered—and in response his hand traveled downward to cup her ass. “If there’s anything I think about most,” he replied, “it’s you.” He squeezed her ass. “Or at least this lovely arse of yours.”

Abbie laughed again, but then the laugh turned into a little moan as Crane kissed her neck before biting her lightly. “Oh God, Crane, we can’t do this here, not with the bartender watching—”

"He left for luncheon—"

"What if he comes back, though—"

"He always takes an hour lunch. Not once has he returned early. And by my calculations—" And Crane dipped a hand down into her bikini bottom, his fingers finding her already wet, and not just from the pool. "—we have precisely 47 minutes before he does return."

And here Crane lifted her up until her legs twined around his waist and he carried her through the water until her back hit the wall of the pool, the water lapping at her shoulders. Crane kissed her then, and Abbie licked inside his mouth and gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he kissed her, until they were breathless and he was kissing his way across her collarbone, down her sternum, palming her breasts through her bikini. When he plucked at one nipple, then the other, she tilted her head back and moaned, hoping no one at the hotel was watching from their room but coming soon to the conclusion that she didn’t really care.

Crane’s hands—his lovely, long, ridiculous, _clever_ hands—drifted downward, down, down, across her belly until they dipped inside her bikini bottom again, and he played with her, stroking through her folds, making her even wetter, just glancing around her clit, until she dug her heels into his back in frustration. “You’re killing me,” she muttered as he played with her like he would some instrument. “And that bartender will be back before you get around to fucking me—”

Undoing his trunks quickly, Crane then thrust into her, and she reared back, overwhelmed with the sensation, with the fullness below. “Then I should go ahead and fuck you, shouldn’t I, Abbie?” Crane murmured before he did as he said. He was, Abbie knew, not one to back down from a dare, and as he thrust in and out of her, her back rubbing against the pebbled wall of the pool, she didn’t even care. She just held on tighter, not caring that her hair was falling down, that it was getting wet, it didn’t matter, only thing that mattered was Crane fucking her senseless and he did, Christ, he did it so well.

And then she was coming with a moan and pressing her face into Crane’s shoulder to muffle the sound, and she felt him come, too, and he probably should’ve tried to muffle his shout, but he never did try to be quiet about anything. Abbie smiled against his hot skin before kissing his bony shoulder. Reaching up, she smoothed his hair away from his face, smiling. “So how much time do we have until the bartender comes back?”

Crane calculated something in his mind before replying, “8 minutes is my estimation. Enough time to right our clothing and return to our hotel room for round two. And—” Crane lifted her hair, which had fallen down and was soaking wet. “—to do whatever you do with your hair, as I know how you dislike getting it wet.”

Abbie looped her arms around his neck, not caring about her hair anymore. “Let’s go upstairs then,” was all she said in reply. And after the bartender returned, Abbie had to bite her lip as they walked past him, stifling laughter at what they’d done while he was gone. It was only until they reached the elevator and the doors had closed that she started laughing, and then Crane laughed, too, and they were both laughing by the time they reached their room upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry about the delay! Got hit with real life. D: D: D:


	9. The 9th Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: After an argument (nothing big; usual couple's stuff), angry Ichabod wants to be in charge for a change. Abbie is very interested in letting him. (Established relationship, bossy hot-head Ichabod, Abbie saying "Yes, sir" to something - or several things - smutty.)**

_On the 9th day of Smutmas  
_

_My true love gave to me_

_Some angry sex on a table~_

Crane was quick to anger—or rather, quick to any emotion—but quick to finding calm. His bursts of frustration were just that: bursts that defused within minutes, usually by the time Abbie counted to fifty. He might grumble or mutter to himself for a while afterward, but never had Abbie seen him truly angry. Well, at least angry with her.

But there was always the day where that could change, right?

Standing in front of the cabinet, his shoulders hunched slightly, his hands gripping the wood, Crane asked in a low voice, “Where is it, Abbie?”

Abbie looked up from her laptop, glanced at her boyfriend’s back—he hated the term boyfriend, so she made certain to refer to him as such as often as possible—and shrugged. “Helps if you specify what ‘it’ is,” she replied cheerily.

He turned, his hands behind his back, his posture once again ramrod straight. That usually meant he was going to be pissy about something. “‘It’ refers to my tea. The tea I specifically drink when I am exhausted and am in need of something soothing. You wouldn’t happen to know where it has all gone?”

"Not sure what you mean." Abbie took a sip of her tea before looking at it with raised brows. "Oh! You mean _this_ tea.” She waved a hand. “Yeah, I finished it off today. Sorry ‘bout that.”

When Crane turned, pinching the bridge of his aristocratic nose, Abbie had to stifle a smile. She really shouldn’t torment him like this, but at the same time, she found it rather enjoyable to ruffle his pristine, snooty feathers. Abbie returned to her laptop, continuing to work on her her report, before a giant hand closed the lid. “Hey now—”

Crane neatly turned her chair to face him before he placed his hands on the table, essentially trapping her where she sat. “I specifically requested that you do not drink my tea—”

"Yeah, you _requested_ —”

"And yet you seem determined to disobey me." When Abbie reared back a little at the word disobey, Crane added, "Do you know what happens to ladies who disobey me, Miss Mills?"

Abbie gazed at Crane a moment, ascertaining his mood. He’d never pulled this card before—the domineering card—but she found herself intrigued. Although she liked to be in control, she certainly wasn’t against ceding that control every once in a while. So she decided to play along. “And what happens to them, Mr. Crane?”

Leaning down, Crane whispered the words in her ear: “They get punished.” And with that, Crane pulled her upward, moved the chair out of the way and pushed her laptop and accoutrements to the other side of the table. Then he turned her so she faced away from him, his body aligned against her back. She could feel his dick, already hard, against her backside.

"And how do you punish these ladies?" Abbie asked. Her voice, she found, was breathless with anticipation, wondering what Crane would do, how far he’d take this. She may have given up a lot of the riskier behavior of her past—well, excepting trying to stop the apocalypse—but she still had a streak of the daredevil inside of her.

Crane stroked a long-fingered hand down the back of her neck, lightly petting her skin. He followed that stroke down her back before reaching the bottom of her shirt. Lifting the fabric, his sinuous fingers darted up her back, tracing her vertebrae, before both hands clasped her breasts from behind. He pinched both nipples through the fabric of her bra simultaneously, and Abbie moaned, gripping the wood of the table in front of her.

"For one, these ladies do not get to talk." Crane reached up underneath her bra to fondle her naked breasts then, plucking and pinching her nipples until Abbie’s hands hurt, they were clenching the table so hard. "And secondly, you shall refer to me as ‘sir’ from now on." When Abbie didn’t reply, Crane bent down and bit her neck. "Is that clear?"

Abbie shuddered. “Yes, sir,” she replied breathlessly. She’d probably be embarrassed by this later. But now—now, she just wanted Crane over her, under her, in her, in every possible way. He was damn sexy as a domineering asshole.

"Excellent," he said in reply. His hands followed a path back down her front, finding the button of her jeans and unzipping her zipper. Pulling down her jeans, he lifted each of her feet out of the garment before tossing it in a random direction. Abbie found herself shivering, but not from the cold. From his hands and his mouth making paths down her legs, nipping at her calves, stroking her ankles.

And then Crane stood again and pressed her down until she was bent over the table. “Stay just like that,” he instructed her. His silky voice drifted to her ears, heightening her already heightened senses. Her body trembled as he stroked down her sides before pulling her panties down and off, exposing her entirely to his gaze.

"Crane—" she gasped out.

He spanked her lightly before leaning over and saying, “Sir.”

Abbie shuddered and bit her lip, both turned on and amused at Crane’s turnabout personality. In revenge, she lifted her backside up slightly and looking over her shoulder at him through lowered lashes, replying, “Yes, sir.”

Crane visibly shuddered and Abbie laughed under her breath. But when she heard Crane unbuttoning his pants, his hands lifting her hips upward, and then his dick pressing into her wet folds, all she could do was moan and press her face into the wood of the table.

"Would you like your punishment, Abbie?"

Abbie wiggled against him as his dick glanced off of her clit, so close but not nearly enough. God, she was dying and he was just going to tease her—

And Crane thrust into her and she bit her lip so hard she imagined there was blood but she didn’t care, she didn’t care about anything but the feeling of Crane fucking her, making her body shake, feeling her orgasm hover on the horizon, it was so close already.

But then he stopped, and just stroked a hand down her back, like he was soothing her. “Ah, you’re so beautiful, so lovely.” And his hands traced down her vertebrae again, lightly feelings its hills and valleys, his dick still inside of her but not moving. Just playing, and waiting.

Abbie groaned against the wood of the table, reaching a hand backwards to touch herself, anything, but Crane knocked her hand away and forced it back onto the table. “I didn’t say you could touch yourself,” he said in low tones as his hands continued leisurely exploring her. And all Abbie could do was moan and curse this asshole to hell and back again.

Finally, Crane’s hand made its way from her ass, down, down, until he lightly flicked her clit and Abbie squeaked and wiggled against him, hoping he’d just move already, God, she was so close.

Crane took hold of her hip with his other hand while his other played with her clit, before leaning over her and kissing her neck. “Do you want me to finish you, Abbie?” he asked.

Abbie could only nod, pushing against his hand on her clit, hoping he’d have mercy. After a moment, she felt him rise up and then he was finally, finally thrusting into her again and rubbing her clit with his index finger while his other hand was gripping her hip so hard there’d probably be bruises but she didn’t care. And it was only a few moments more before she came so hard that her entire body shook and trembled and she swore ever swear word she’d ever learned against the wood of that table and vowed revenge on this magnificent asshole of a boyfriend.

She felt Crane come some moments later, his own voice hoarse and the hand on her hip gripping her even tighter before loosening as he came down. Abbie sobbed for breath as Crane did as well, both of them sweaty like they’d been sprinting. Crane eventually lifted himself off of Abbie and she turned to face him, throwing her arms around his neck to keep herself from melting into a puddle at his feet.

"Well, I guess my punishment has been thoroughly wrought," Abbie murmured. When Crane just raised an eyebrow, she added, "Right, _sir_?” She raised an eyebrow of her own.

But then Crane gripped her ass, pulling her against him, before saying in that voice of his that she loved so much, “We’ve only gotten started, dearest Abbie.”


	10. The 10th Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: Ichabbie in the mud during a rainstorm because reasons. It could be in the midst of anything and it doesn't have to have a plot at all. But a thunderstorm and mud.**

_On the 10th day of Smutmas  
_

_My true love gave to me_

_Some smut during a storm~_

It had begun raining the moment they left to pursue this demon, one they had finally gutted, killed and left to rot as they tromped through the woods, soaked to the skin, the rain falling hard despite the cover of the trees overhead.

Abbie stepped over roots and maneuvered under branches, branches that Crane had to push upwards so they wouldn’t smack him in the face. This was one instance, Abbie reflected, where she didn’t mind being short. But as Abbie stepped around a log, she felt her foot sink into boggy mud. Trying to pull her leg up, she realized that she was stuck. Or at least, her boot was.

"Crane!" she called after her lanky partner. "Hold up! My boot’s stuck."

Crane turned, his long hair plastered to his face and head, his coat dark with rainwater. “Lieutenant?” He began stalking his way back to her, moving branches away with haste. “Are you well?”

"I’m fine," Abbie answered, "but I can’t get my foot out of this mud—" She pulled at her leg, but to no avail. Rain fell as fat drops onto her head; she knew her hair was turning into a curly, frizzy mess. She just hoped her leather jacket would be salvageable. "Help me out?"

Crane squatted a moment to look at her boot before he stood, maneuvering in front of her so he could get a hold of her leg. “I think we can get it out without having you take off your boot.” He grabbed hold of her calf tightly and with both his strength and hers combined, her foot pulled free of the sucking mud.

Unfortunately, Abbie’s balance was already off-kilter: coupled with the sudden yanking upward of her foot, she found herself flailing before falling backwards, her ass making a squashing sound as it hit the mud.

There was silence for a moment—except for the rain—before Abbie looked to see Crane trying to stifle laughter, his shoulders hunched inward. Abbie glared at him as she tried to stand, but the mud was so slick that she just slipped and slid across it before falling backwards again. Crane just laughed harder.

"Are you seriously just going to stand there and laugh at me or are you going to help me?" she asked in biting tones. Her jacket was covered in mud, her jeans probably ruined, her boots ruined too. And that asshole was just going to fucking laugh at her?

Crane stepped towards her, reaching down to grab both of her wrists. “I do apologize, Lieutenant, but you looked so ridiculous—” Crane pulled her up, setting her on her feet as if she weighed nothing at all. “Are you all right, however?”

Abbie swiped a hand across her face, knowing it was futile to try to get the mud off. “I’m fine, no thanks to you.” When Crane began smiling again, Abbie narrowed her eyes at him. “You really think this is funny?”

Crane stood straight, his hands behind his back, the proper gentleman. “No, certainly not. I would never be amused at your expense.”

"Oh good, thanks for clarifying." And before Crane could react, Abbie shot out a foot and caught him at the ankles, sending him down to the ground, the entire length of his body now in the mud. "I have no problem being amused at your expense, just in case you were wondering."

Crane simply gazed up her in silence a moment before narrowing his brows. He reached out and grasped one of her ankles, his long fingers circling her leg. Abbie tried to kick him off, but he was surprisingly strong, the skinny asshole. And then his other hand was on her other leg and she was falling again into the mud right next to him, her front in the mud, and now she was covered in the stuff, absolutely positively soaked in mud.

"What the fuck!" she yelled before she grabbed a fistful of the stuff and chucked it at Crane, and then he grabbed her and they were rolling in the mud, pelting each other with it, and before long Abbie was laughing along with Crane, the rain still falling around them and the mud making ridiculous squishing sounds as they rolled about.

And then Abbie grabbed him by the lapels of his wet coat and kissed him, his mouth wet and a strand of his wet hair caught against his lips. He responded instantly, reaching around her and grabbing her by the waist, pulling her into the shelter of his body. He kissed her like he’d been wanting to do so for ages, his mouth moving against hers with a hunger she hadn’t expected, his beard rasping against her skin. He tasted like lemon tea and peppermint and Crane: warm, lanky, intelligent, obnoxious Crane.

Crane leaned back a moment, breathing hard, smoothing a hand across her brow to brush back her wet hair. “Abbie—” he said softly and she silenced him with a kiss.

Their couldn’t take their clothes off—too wet, too dark, too muddy—but Crane lifted Abbie onto his knee and pressed his leg against her clit, the pressure causing her body to throb. She kissed him, her tongue entangling with his as he pressed upwards against her and she moaned, the chafing of the fabric of her jeans coupled with the exquisite pressure bringing her so close, so close. And then Crane whispered in her ear, “Let go,” and Abbie did. She shuddered in his arms and rubbed against him and then he kissed her until she didn’t know where her body began and his ended.

They stayed like that for a time, before Crane tilted her face to look at him. “Abbie, you don’t know—”

Abbie pulled her face away before pushing herself upward, raindrops dripping down her face like tears. Standing above him, she turned away as she replied, “We should go. It’s getting dark.”

She didn’t wait for Crane to respond. All she heard was him lifting himself out of the mud before he began tromping through the underbrush after her. By the time they reached Abbie’s car, they were both shivering, the warmth from their encounter already drained out of their bodies.

When Abbie dropped him off at Corbin’s cabin, Crane looked at her before he reached over and kissed her. “This isn’t over,” he murmured. He then exited her car, his back hunched as he walked inside.

Abbie swiped at her face as she put her car in drive, hoping that the moisture dotting her cheeks was just from the rain.


	11. The 11th Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: Make up sex.**

_On the 11th day of Smutmas_

_My true love gave to me_

_A reconciliation and a realization~_

Crane walks to Abbie’s house. The cold of winter seeps into his bones, but he hardly feels it. He wonders if she’ll open the door for him, or if she’ll slam it in his face. He wonders if he’s ruined everything. He trudges forward, his boots softly landing against the fallen snow, the wind whistling through the barren trees.

He hesitates upon reaching her home, his fist in the air in front of her door, before he connects it with the wood. Shifting on his feet, Crane flexes his hands in agitation, waiting for her. He knows he’ll wait for her, come for her, do anything for her, no matter the cost. And that’s why he’s here: to apologize, to beg, to grovel, to fall at her feet and ask her forgiveness.

When the door opens, Abbie merely glances at his face, standing silently. He thinks she’s about to tell him to go when she opens the door wider, signalling that he may enter. He breathes out a sigh of relief and walks inside, shutting the door behind him.

"What are you doing here, Crane?" she asks him. Her voice is tired, resigned. She walks into her living room, not concerned that he’s following. He follows her anyway: he’d follow her anywhere. He knows this. He accepted this a long time ago.

"I came to beg your forgiveness," he says by way of explanation. Shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, Crane looks up at the ceiling. It’s easier than facing Abbie’s expression, which is carefully blank. Abbie is, Crane knows, so very talented at hiding away the essence of herself. And it’s that hiding away of herself that terrifies him the most.

"I know I hurt you," he begins, trying to fill the edged silence. "But I was mistaken: mistaken to accuse you of not caring for yourself, for endangering yourself to prove something." He forces himself to look her in the eye. Her expression remains shuttered. "Can you, Abbie, accept my most heartfelt apology?"

Abbie licks her lip, sighs. “What you said—”

"I was wrong. So very wrong." Crane steps forward until they are mere inches apart. He feels her warmth, smells the faint scent of jasmine; he swears he can hear her heart beating. "When that demon attacked you—when you fought so valiantly but recklessly—" Abbie balks but he continues regardless. "I found myself enraged. Enraged that you would endanger yourself without thought. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you for that reason."

When he takes her hand, she doesn’t pull away. But she doesn’t reply for some moments, thinking, always taking in a situation and siphoning it through that complex mind of hers. Taking stock, coming to a logical conclusion. Always the investigator, is his Abbie. “The things you said,” she begins. “The things you said—that I didn’t care about myself, or you—”

"Were wrong, so completely, utterly wrong—"

"Yeah, they were." And here Abbie sighs, various emotions flitting across her face. And when she looks up at Crane, he realizes she’s allowing him to see her emotions now, allowing him to look inside her heart. He feels his heart beat faster. "It was cruel of you to say those things to me." She looks away, but allows him to hold her hand. "But I won’t deny that there’s a part of me that expects to die in the end, that I’m always expecting some demon to be the last one, the one that finishes me off." Her voice only wavers slightly, the tenor of it striking Crane with its innate bravery in the face of such terror.

"Abbie—"

She looks up at him again, her expression determined. Brave, strong, determined Abbie. “But just because I’m afraid of that happening doesn’t mean I won’t stop fighting, or won’t do all that I can to prevent this apocalypse.” And Abbie takes a breath before concluding, “Even you won’t stop me from my duty, Ichabod Crane.”

Reaching forward, Crane cups her face, brushing his thumbs against the fine grain of her skin. “I know that: of that I have no doubt. We will fight this war together, however: if one of us perishes, we both perish. If you were killed, I would follow therewith. For you are my shining light, Abbie: my light and my rock and without you I am nothing in this world.”

Abbie’s bottom lip begins to tremble, and Crane smooths away a single tear that tracks down her face before kissing her. He tastes salt on her lips, and fear, and acknowledgement of a love between them that grew from adversity and a shared destiny. They share a destiny of cold nights and blood spilled, but also a destiny in which their lives entwine so tightly that neither one knows where one begins or ends.

Crane kisses her and Abbie curls her small hands around his neck, her nails lightly grazing his nape. He pulls her close, his hand around her waist, the other hand in her hair. They twine themselves around each other, kissing and kissing until the room melts away and it’s just them, together.

Crane kisses down the side of her lovely neck, kisses her collarbone, takes her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist, trailing upwards to the indent of her elbow. And then they fall together onto the living room couch, and they hastily shuffle off their clothing until they’re skin to skin—finally, completely bare. Crane traces figures on Abbie’s skin, lightly dancing his fingertips upon her, learning her body, awed at her very existence. Abbie does the same, spreading her hands across his chest, kissing the bottom of his chin, smoothing his hair away from his forehead.

When they come together, Crane can only see light behind his eyelids. He drops his face into the crook of Abbie’s shoulder, inhaling her scent, feeling her hands dancing on his spine, her sharp intakes of breath. He moves within her and all he can think is that he’s grateful for everything: for their destiny, their meeting, their love that started from the most unlikely source. And when she sighs into his chest, it’s all he can do stop himself from trembling head to toe.

In the aftermath, Crane holds Abbie close, his chin on the crown of her head, her body curled up next to him. She plays with his fingers absently, simply breathing, and they enjoy the moment, the silence, the union, knowing that with the sunrise, they would have to fight for this life, this love, once again.


	12. The 12th Day of Smutmas

**Prompt: No touching allowed.**

_On the 12th day of Smutmas  
_

_My true love gave to me_

_A cursed desperation~_

It had been a revenge spell, pure and simple: not meant to kill or even disable, but cruel all the same. After the witch had spoken the words, harsh and raspy, Crane had merely felt his skin burn for a moment before the sensation faded. But it was the witch’s words that pained him the most: “Your touch will cause the other’s death,” she pronounced in unsettling accents, the words falling from her tongue like infinite pricks against the body. “This is my curse on you both.”

Before he and Abbie could react, she disappeared into the night. They stared at each other some moments, stunned, terrified, and they both moved towards the other before stopping short, realizing what the witch’s words truly meant.

“Are you well?” Crane asked his partner, his fellow Witness, his true love. The woman he could no longer embrace, no longer touch. His throat felt tight.

Abbie closed her hand into a fist before tucking it back into the realm of her body. “I’m fine.” She laughed, the sound bitter. “Well, mostly.”

They searched within the old grimoires in the archives, reading until their eyes turned red and they fell asleep on top of the musty books. They searched on the Internet, they practically ransacked libraries, they inquired and searched and combed through every bit of information: but nothing. They searched for signs of the witch who’d cursed them but still: nothing. Jenny helped when she could, Irving when he could. Both of them glanced at the pair with worried eyes as the days and weeks passed with no glimmer of hope.

And all the while they couldn’t so much as take each other’s hands, let alone kiss or embrace or make love. Crane slept on the couch and Abbie took the bed; they made certain to walk gingerly around each other, avoiding so much as bumping into each other, fearful any contact would result in their deaths. They didn’t know if it was any contact or if it were only skin-to-skin; but terrified of testing the boundaries, they merely stayed away from each other.

That morning, Crane had watched Abbie make coffee, the delicate line of her neck bending as she prepared the brew. She worked with such quick yet graceful movements, her body as beautiful as it was small. Crane felt his hands twitch in his lap, desperate to trace the line of throat, kiss the corner of her eye, pull her towards him and feel her warmth.

But he couldn’t. And he didn’t know if ever could again.

Now they were in the archives again, searching. Always searching. And as the sun set on another fruitless day, Crane found himself shutting a tome that he’d read before, shoving it back into place before sliding down the bookshelf and onto the floor. He leaned his head back against the shelf and found himself fighting tears. It was hopeless, was all he could think. Oh the irony that was his life, he thought bitterly: finding this woman, loving her, and not being able to touch her ever again.

Some moments later he heard a book shut and footsteps. Crane felt the shelves shift slightly as Abbie sat down on the floor, her back against the shelf, their backs to each other now. This was the closest they’d gotten to each other in weeks, pushing against the curse as much as possible. Crane would swear he could almost feel her warmth, feel her skin, feel her against him like before.

“Find anything?” Abbie asked, her voice quiet.

“Nothing,” he replied, just as quietly. Silence fell between them, only the sounds of tree branches clicking against the windows filling the room.

Crane heard Abbie sigh, and his chest ached. He wanted to touch her so badly it hurt: his skin burned and his hands ached and his chest constricted. “How are you, Abbie?”

Sighing again, Abbie took a moment to reply. “Frustrated. Losing hope.” She turned towards him somewhat: he felt her every movement in his body. “You?”

“I am both of those, but I am also terrified,” he replied. Leaning against the shelf, the wood biting into his back, he continued, “Terrified that I’ll never be able to take you into my arms again, or hold you, or make love to you ever again.”

Crane glanced back at Abbie at her silence, and all he could see was her dark hair and her hand at her face. “If I could touch you—” he began.

“Don’t, Crane.”

“If I could touch you,” he continued regardless, undaunted. “I’d take your hand, trace the lines on your palm. Kiss your palm. Kiss your fingers and the inside of your wrist, where you always smell like jasmine flowers.”

Crane let silence fall again, waiting for Abbie. Hoping for Abbie. He listened to her brush her hands against her jeans, felt her shift against the shelf. Waited for her. “I’d pet your beard,” she said with a little laugh. “And then I’d simply wrap my arms around your neck and hold on.” Her voice wavered, and Crane almost stood to go to her. “I’d hold you so tight you’d say I was suffocating you.”

“I would not mind.”

“And then I would kiss you so hard that you’d need to sit down.”

Crane laughed at that. “I would make you sit with me. Make you sit _on_ me.” He heard her laugh, and he smiled.

“And I’d run my hands along your chest—you’re looking really skinny lately, by the way—and then I’d trail my hands up under your shirt—”

“While I’d trail my hands up under your shirt, undoing the clasp of your ridiculous undergarment—”

“You can call it a bra.”

Crane waved a hand. “It sounds absurd.”

Abbie snorted. “Yeah, well, you can take off my _bra_ if you’d like. I’ll be too busy raking my nails down your chest.”

Turning, Crane realized that Abbie was looking at him through the shelf. He turned completely to face her now, gazing into her dark eyes, noticing her lids were lowered slightly. “You may do as you wish, of course,” he replied. “I shall continue my exploration of your lovely form, disrobing you and gazing upon your breasts.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I’d play with your nipples—as you enjoy—and you’d stop your nail raking to moan—“

“I would not stop for that.“

“And then you’d moan louder as I sucked your nipples, harder and harder until you start to tremble in my lap.”

Abbie bit her lip, leaning closer, her chin on one of the books. “But I’d end up undoing your pants, and we all know you’d be hard as a rock.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And I’d wrap my hand around your dick—“ Crane shuddered a little at the image, “And your head would fall back like it always does when I give you a handjob, and I’d squeeze, but not too hard.”

Crane leaned his forehead against the wood of the shelf. “No, you would not.”

“And I’d kiss you until you moaned and were putty in my hands.”

They fell silent then, both of them breathing heavily. Crane clenched his fists so hard his joints hurt. He knew they should stop, end this torment, but he couldn’t. It was the closest they’d been able to be in weeks, perhaps would be the closest they’d be for months to come.

“Then what would you do, Abbie?” he asked, his voice croaky, like he had been moaning.

Abbie puffed out a breath. “I’d get down on my knees and put you in my mouth, suck you so hard you’d almost come off the chair—“

“Jesus.”  
  
“Licking, sucking, bringing you so close, and right before you came, I’d stop. I’d stop and simply wait, watch you breathe and squirm and beg.”

“You were always a kind lover,” Crane eked out.

“But when you couldn’t stand it any longer, I’d strip out of my jeans and fuck you so hard—my pussy so wet and hot—that you wouldn’t know your own name by the end.”

Crane breathed and breathed and wiped his palms on his breeches, his cock hard and aching, his teeth biting his lip. “And you, you wouldn’t know your own name either,” he said. “I’d rub you until your head tipped back and you’d have to hold on, your body trembling in my arms, your sex clenching around me.”

Abbie moaned and then turned away from him, her head tipped back against the shelf. Crane didn’t move, but simply continued on, “You’d be so close and I’d slow down, making it go on longer and longer until you’d be desperate and begging me for it.“

“Fuck you,” she said under her breath.

“And then I’d fuck you hard and bite your neck and then finally, I’d let you come. And you’d scream my name, as you always do.”

Abbie puffed out a breath, over and over, and Crane swore he could feel her body trembling right then. “Then you’d come right after, screaming _my_ name.”

“Yes. As always.”

And then they simply sat in silence, breathing, listening, thinking, imagining. Wishing and hoping and praying. Neither of them touched themselves: perhaps it was too painful to touch oneself imagining it were the other. Perhaps it was easier just to talk, to imagine, instead of reenacting.

Crane eventually stood, walking around the shelf to Abbie. He almost reached a hand out to help her up, but he stopped, stepping aside to let her stand. She rose on somewhat wobbly legs, and they gazed at each other, a mix of desire and desperation palpable from them both.

Abbie raised a hand then, kissing her palm, before reaching forward and bringing it only millimeters from Crane’s lips. He stood as still as a statue, his eyes closed, feeling the warmth from her palm radiate onto his lips.

And when she took her hand back, he raised his own: kissing the palm before reaching towards her lips, his own skin so close to hers that it hurt. It hurt and it was wondrous but so painful that he bit his lip to stop from sobbing. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment. He stayed in the pose until his arm ached, before he reluctantly lowered his arm to his side once again.

When Abbie opened her eyes, they simply gazed at each other and could only wonder if they’d ever regain what they had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here ends The 12 Days of Smutmas, which ended up taking twice that long. Oops. (Is anyone surprised?)
> 
> Thanks for reading, though, and for everyone who sent in prompts! <3


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